


Ghost Boy

by ANGELVOID



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Cousin Incest, Dirty Jokes, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Homophobic Language, Original Character(s), Physical Abuse, Sex, Slow Romance, Suicide, Teen Romance, Triggers, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Underage Substance Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28748265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANGELVOID/pseuds/ANGELVOID
Summary: Richie Tozier was aching to reciprocate, and finally he was going to. But then something made him stop all connection with anything and everything that keeps him grounded. She keeps on waiting, her deep oceans would rise into a high tide and spill down her cherubic cheeks and ruddy lips if she can't hold it any longer. Yet, she keeps on waiting, because maybe he'd come back down to earth eventually. Maybe.
Relationships: Richie Tozier/Original Female Character(s)





	1. Introduction

𝐌𝐈𝐗𝐓𝐀𝐏𝐄 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 ﻬ꜆

☎︎ 01─alright─supergrass

☎︎ 02─kids in america─the muffs

☎︎ 03─she's so high─tal bachman

☎︎ 04─love my way─the psychedelic furs

☎︎ 05─electric blue─icehouse

☎︎ 06─about a girl─nirvana

☎︎ 07─pumped up kids─foster the people

☎︎ 08─naked and sacred─chynna phillips

☎︎ 09─material girl─madonna

☎︎ 10─pretty in pink─the psychedelic furs

𝐌𝐈𝐗𝐓𝐀𝐏𝐄 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ✿

☎︎ 01─ghost boy─lil peep

☎︎ 02─better off [dying]─lil peep

☎︎ 03─nothing to you─lil peep

☎︎ 04─don't stand so close to me─the police

☎︎ 05─time after time─cyndi lauper

☎︎ 06─pigs─tyler, the creator

☎︎ 07─love is a battlefield─pat benatar

☎︎ 08─ghosts─jeremy zucker

☎︎ 09─mystery of love─sufjan stevens

☎︎ 10─the ghost in you─the psychedelic furs

𝐃𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃

𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥  
𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨'𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘻𝘪𝘦𝘳  
𝘢 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳.

𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦  
𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥  
𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦.

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒

contemporary issues

triggering scenes

underage drinking and smoking

mention of drugs

adult jokes

strong language

physical abuse

sex

𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒

𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗒  
𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒  
𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅, 𝖨𝖳. 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗌  
𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝖨𝖳 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁.  
𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾  
𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖨𝖳 𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋'𝗌  
𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌,  
𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾  
𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋'𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇.

➤ author  
hi we have the  
hypersexual of a  
pandemic going  
on in our planet  
rn. it's all going  
into shit. my  
mind wont shut  
up so im making  
a beneficial out-  
come

maybeh i release  
this when covid  
dead and have  
vaccine

pennywise does  
not exist in this  
universe. in this  
dimension where  
fiction is real. the  
world of fiction  
as fictional  
characters think  
theyre fucking  
real. but penny-  
wise does not exist.  
it wasnt here.

listen to the sound-  
track once you're  
done reading the  
entire book. it's not  
by chapter, but  
it's in order. like, not  
every chapter has a  
song. moments has  
songs, thats how i  
lined it. do you get  
what i mean? it's all  
in order. moments  
from chapter one to  
the epilogue.

those songs are good.  
like painfully amazing.  
listen to it after youre  
done. thanks.

pay attention to the  
content that contains  
this book before you  
read. i will add  
warnings before  
chapters, even if it  
demolishes the vibe,  
and it's like spoilers.  
i care about you and  
your mental health.  
i'd suck it up. and sex  
is a one-time thing. it  
will happen ONCE.

rude comments  
will be blocked!

all rights goes to  
stephen king. i  
casted a twist to  
the characters  
and made them  
my own. but  
still. they're still  
his, minus my  
original characters.

okay bye you get  
it, enjoy

see the version of  
my losers' club,  
my bowers' gang,  
my henry bowers,  
and my richie tozier  
come to play❣︎

𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖙 𝖕𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖙𝖚𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖎𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖟𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖜

𝕽𝖊𝖜𝖎𝖓𝖉 𝖇𝖆𝖈𝖐 𝖙𝖔 𝟭𝟵𝟴𝟵 𝖆𝖙 𝗗𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆, 𝗠𝗮𝗶𝗻𝗲 ⇦⇦

𝑮 𝑯 𝑶 𝑺 𝑻

𝑩 𝑶 𝒀


	2. Chapter One

**Molly Julienne Bowers' Point of View**

The birds chirp royally under the periwinkle hue of the sky, their strong plume is a form of a blanket for them as they greet the earthlings of the town of Derry a gentle Good Morning. The sun is rising to its inevitable throne once again after it had its tranquil sleep... tranquil because it trusted the moon to be in charge for the rest of the time being. Cool breeze seduce my vanilla legs when the solace of my own blanket has lost contact with the skin that's been hidden underneath the cotton material for hours, yet the slight gelidity is not too harsh, it's a good morning despite the objective notion of today being the first day of school. Finally, as a grade 12 student, a senior. The finale.

It must be nice to feel trusting someone. And for them to trust you back. I only trust one person. Maybe even four, maybe. But that one person is practically my guardian angel that I can bodily see with my deep ocean eyes, excluding the reputation. He's the human definition of the solar system; loyal.

Henry Bowers is a fucking detestable freak, to everyone at least, but not to me. We created a kiddish vortex with the help of the wind (that is my natural implanted best friend) it's a euphonious place where we can be whoever we want to be, anything just as long as we're not stepping on someone or something if we're in each other's company. He's the big brother I ache to receive, plus that's unattainable now whereas I'm the first offspring of my parents. Hen and I are inseparable like the moon and the stars ever since I was a toddler─ever since he played dolls with me when I was four and he was six, I began to offer my trust to the mullet-wearing asshole. His dislike towards the dolls I shared with him was magnanimously prominent, I believe there was vile rising up his throat like lava inside an upcoming volcanic explosion, and he was trying his best to keep calm. Still, he chose to suck it up for my juvenile happiness instead of playing Donkey Kong at the arcade with his gang that I wasn't a part of just yet. Perhaps never been a part of.

Our brand has always been Bowers' gang and Jules. That's it. People seem to not be in fond when I'm with them that's why they exclude me in the name, which I don't really mind (since their reprehensible task force has started several years ago and I'm not even doing the same things with them and that I'm the only girl in Henry Bowers' gang, people must be confused why I'm even with them still), they're my friends. They're my friends and they're really not that bad behind closed doors, and people just don't know that. They're not exactly rude and sadistic and scary when I'm with them, they treat me as their little sister because really they're two years older than me.

Microscopic particles that floats around the atmosphere every second is the special bond that we have for each other, Henry and I. It's never ending, such as the earth's feeble rotation. After all, he's my cousin. And he's the only person I trust. And he shared his friends with me when I don't have any when I started middle school.

Crystalline water run down my pale skin like raindrops on a windshield, the white towel around my body catching the liquid caterpillars that were from the calming shower that I had taken just five minutes ago. Soon, my mind commences to give birth to another attire that I will be wearing for the next many hours of today. The clothes are tantalizing my eyes, attempting to look their best for me to pick them, similar to prostitution in the middle of the night.

The first day of school is about first impressions. Even though I've been going to the same school, with the same people, I engage some effort every once in a while. 'Engage some effort' is Molly Jules language for not wearing oversized hoodies and jeans and black high-top Converse. Basically not dressing up as a boy─I'm not influenced by my friends that happens to be only boys, hoodies are just really comfortable. So the white top (that perfectly hugs my upper body with puffed sleeves and chaste lace on every verge of the clothing), red plaided skirt, and extremely pretty Mary Jane's with white socks are the four prostitutes that won to have a peek at Derry High.

A peppermint pixie of a sigh flee from my lips once I have a look at my whole appearance, my black Adidas backpack slung on my shoulder as I have yet to eat breakfast with my fond parents downstairs. They didn't wake me up like what they usually do when I was in middle school. Correction: my mom does. And that's okay! I'm in high school and possess responsibleness.

"Good morning, sweetheart!" My dad, Simon Bowers, greeted in euphoria when my stomping has halted under the entree of the enormous dining room and kitchen. The typical mien of his necktie and a cup of coffee in hand while the other grip on today's newspaper garners nostalgia. His wrinkles on both sides of his eyes where reading glasses are magnified by are the impaling rememberance of growth.

Just like his ebony curls that fondle around his now silver Harry Potter glasses... I wonder where did the thick-framed glasses go, the root of people at school for calling him 'four-eyes'. We're growing. A bunch of seventeen-year-olds now, and I still haven't talked to him albeit my friends rock their shit─that I keep trying to stop them! Which they do! Yet they don't actually completely stop!

Then there's my mom, Juliana Westbrooke-Bowers; levitating boon and generous beauty. "Molly, good morning." the only parent that likes to call me by my first name, a drug. Victor quoted that I look like her a lot, minus the button nose that Hen and I both have. She's got this much smaller nose that I immensely envy, but it's alright since I'm proud of the eyes, lips, and hair that I got from her. It's genuinely whatever. And it doesn't matter. But the Molly thing is a big deal. My friends (excluding Henry because he's my guardian angel and doesn't use me as a joke) were calling me Molly once they discovered drugs at 6th grade, though that died down straightaway because I've always been Jules... I mean the name calling only, they didn't stop smoking and popping and sniffing.

"Morning." the sun is on my peachy lips, gentle rays shining towards my parents as I take a seat on the wooden chair that is titled as my own in the dining table. A ceramic bowl and my own cup rest in front of me, and it's my duty to pour Cinnamon Crunch before milk on the said concave vessel while warm milk on the other dish.

"You look nice, honey. And you're not wearing your usual Converse." my mother giggled, peachy utterance and honeysuckles.

"I actually want to put some effort on the first day. Maybe tomorrow I'll go back to wearing my usual shit."

My father glanced at me, "Language." stern like a metal. I apologized not so sincerely, but he lets me go, which is ineluctable. I'm growing, I'm seventeen, I'm a senior. Forbidden words has been flying out of my mouth like pollen cotton at the powdery meadows ever since. Someday, he wouldn't stop me, in the name of the law.

Not too long after, I wiped the starchy milk on the corners of my lips with the back of my hand, standing upright and ready to leave Summer Break. My lunchbox is secured in the bag, chicken teriyaki with rice that I will share with Henry later at lunch, it's been the ritual inasmuch as uncle Butch doesn't prepare him food for the middle of the day. My mom doesn't know I share the vast food that she packs with my cousin, or else she would have me bring a fucking picnic basket at school and look like a total fool.

"Jules!" daddy called from the living room where he's fixing his semblance for work. "Henry's here!" I planted a peck on my parents' cheek before I leave, desperately squirming out of their cherishing and comments about me being a senior. It's a good thing they're aware. I told them I love them while my candle-like fingers grasp around the straps of my backpack.

"Oh look at that strutting hottie right there!" Patrick Hockstetter whistled, a pale wolf under a full moon, his scrawny upper body is specifically out of the backseat window of Henry's rustic-red truck. See, Henry and him should be going into college like Victor, since Belch is working at Tesla─they have talent despite them being puppets of Henry. Yet here they are, driving me to Derry High because that's where they're headed, too. A smirk is on his dry lips, the aftermath of his tongue running across the thin skin, acid coating the surface as it evaporates into a desert. Raven eyes too dark and menacing, but being friends with him for years is a book that I'm done studying and now retain a familiarity to his eccentric mannerism.

My middle finger saluted his now not-smirking face whilst I continue the walk on my driveway, his eyes plaguing darker than an unknown place without the sun and a moon; sociopathic chemicals showing in limpidness. He barked, "Place that shit down before I burn you alive, Jules."

"I'll kick you, Pat. But you won't even do it, I know you can't, Hockstetter."

"Oh, you're gonna kick me with them Mary Jane's?" a horselaugh was emanated from his long throat, waking the racoons and bears that are still sleeping at the woods. "What are you, nine?"

"Cut it out, Hockstetter." then tawny mullets and red bandanas flutter with angel wings and devil horns. My best friend, my guardian angel. "Hop on, Jules, let's get outta here." so I did. Well, before I glare my icy sapphires at Patrick for muttering 'bitch' at me. Death metal music woke me up thoroughly, sending electricity from the heels of my shoes to the top of my ebony hair, yet my ear drums yawn at the same time as well. Familiarity.

My hand scramble around the contents of my backpack to find the special tube of the glittery, transparent substance. And another sigh of content escape my velvet lips once the well-known container has found the grip of my palm. The application of the thick substance on the thin, pink skin of my face somehow captured Patrick's attention over the booming music. Immediately, his scrawny upper body is hovering over for his eyes to get the perfect angle and not miss any action of the process.

"What does it taste like?" he questioned, the raven eyes is stubborn keeping contact with the pink, dazzling tube, like a predator towards its prey.

"Probably strawberry," puckering my lips for the smell of fruity essence to reach my button nose even if I've smelled it before. "It's strawberry. Smells like it."

When my now gentle cordierites connect with his pitch ones, his pinky is held up for me to slather some glittery gloss over the pad of the smallest finger. I squeeze the tube with my thumb and index, and when I think that the cosmetic entity is enough for him─which is just severely little, the fuck knows what he's going to do with that, probably something weird─the slanted architecture of the built-in applicator has a rendezvous with the pad of his pinky. Then he dump it in his mouth, looking down as if his attention to be undivided to entirely discover the flavors of the lip gloss.

His eyes light up for the first time today as he ask for more by showing off his pinky once again. I grimaced, "No! This isn't fucking icing, you literal freak!" he glared at me, the water from my eyes extinguished the light on his.

The snickering from my throat has reached its expiration, leaving the vehicle with just the sound of violent drums and distorted guitars (which I wholeheartedly love the latter), however Hen broke the human silence. "Is that skirt not gonna fly 'round, Jules?"

"No." I shook my head in positivity, my chocolate hair bouncing side to side. "This isn't one of those tennis skirts. It's hugging, and I have shorts underneath, it's fine."

Lavenders. Lavender moisture inject into my pores and spiral the rustic carrier with the flora utterance, the heat within my bloodstreams will assist the fragrance to boost in confidence. Bees will soon tail me and feel my vanilla skin as soon as I bathe myself in the law of inertia, hymenopterans finally catching up and reaching the merchandise. Sure enough, the two boys will smell of the eloquent flower, too... and that's a good thing, I think. At least there's something nice that will add up to their scent of horrid.

"Do you know that girls keep askin' me why I smell of girly shit when they all up on me?" it's a rhetorical question, so I just looked at Henry and wait for him to continue. "And I needa tell 'em that's my cousin's." I giggle, and I wonder if I'm a burden towards his love life. Little cousin getting in the way of scoring chicks, funny.

Regardless of their terrorism─that I don't genuinely tolerate forever and ever─and death metal exterior and scent of alcohol and pot, they actually care about each other. I could say, internally, we're like the Losers' Club: caring and devoted towards the members of our own pack.


	3. Chapter Two

**Third Person Point of View**

August sunrises are anxiety-inducing yet cultivates a sense of excitement at the same time for all the teenagers of Derry. That being it's the first day of school, and seeing their freinds again after the long Summer break. The grand reassurance of the breeze of 7:30 in the morning slightly calms the trio when the rustic truck has rendezvous the school's parking lot for the first time. Kids here and there waste a bit of their vigor to have a sight of the new vehicle, bafflement and foreignness swimming within their nosy brains of not catching the infamous blue Trans AM.

The terrorizing misfits depart the form of their transportation from now on with a huff of despisement, combat boots colliding with the pavement as their menacing eyes scan the abominable environment that they have to spend the rest of their ten months once again.

On the other hand, she exit the front seat like a butterfly that all of the people that are present within the area fully perceive, she is poised. With the heels of her shoes, she seems much taller as she takes her time to sling the straps of her bag unto her shoulders, fingers gripping the narrow nylon material to situate it nicely. Mary Jane's waltz on the parking lot in ballerina ambulation towards the two boys that are now lighting a cigarette with their backs pressed against the side of Hen's machinery, cautiously minding the distance for the stench of nicotine to not stick on her Lavender-scented clothes. But the inevitable of it mixing is pellucid. The flowery vertigo is the best definition of her, the wind is aching for her to discover it because no one can, as of now. They may, but they can't.

He was watching her. Magnified eyes acquainted by her teenage damsel grace while she cross her arms against her catchy yet not too big chest─the conclusion of wearing a hugging blouse─and wait for her only friends to finish their smoke session before entering the busy halls of lockers and rowdy students. While the other Losers conversate with each other about the shenanigans that they have done this Summer, Richard Tozier is quiet, thinking to himself, _holy, fucking, shit... I think she entirely turned into an angel. Baby angel, teenage cherub or something. Like, her transformation is done. The process of her evolving into the celestial fucking being is complete. It's reached the final round._

She hasn't seen him yet. She hasn't seen the way his dark chocolate hair grew long above his shoulders, and that the curls have twirled into a more delicate shape at the ends. The silver Harry Potter glasses that he just started wearing last school year are still sitting on the now sharper bridge of his lightly-freckled nose. Those motormouthed lips are chapped from all the nicotine smoke he's downing with the Marsh girl instead of water, and it's a bet that she would love it once her vivid blue's catch a sight of those pink lips. As usual, he's wearing Rock 'n' Roll clothes; band shirt, ripped jeans, the infamous jean jacket, and black high-top Converse─maybe that is the reason why she religiously loves wearing her own. Seventeen, his face is trenchant and even more handsome. And he doesn't know that girls truly swoon over it if he for once tone the indecorous quality down.

8th grade was her awakening to romanticism, when he was nevertheless oblivious about the factual idea of Hawaiian button-ups being god-awful with the clothes he has paired it with. His was in 4th grade, when her friends aren't tormenting their schoolmates and them just yet, albeit his infatuation towards her never ceased even if Henry and his goons commense the devilishment at 6th grade.

Richie Tozier knew that she doesn't tolerate the terrorism, because her beautiful royal eyes would glare at the leader's predatory ones, and soon his enforcers would stop in righteousness once a signal of his Red Bandana Hand is raised. That's why the Losers' Club don't actually hate thee Molly Jules... but they won't blame her when the harsh Bowers can't control his dominant wrath that she couldn't bewitch a halt with her icy sapphires or honey voice.

It greatly baffled the five-membered group at that time about the fact of Jules Bowers, the stuck angel in the Bowers' gang, is relatives with the leader himself. How come such a beautiful being be related to something so invective? They feel bad for her, honestly. I mean, she's the only girl in their party and she has to be stuck with sadistic psychopaths.

However, Richie is aware of Jules and Henry's special bond. So great and harmonious despite the boy's cowering name. He has a golden heart for her, and her only. And that's respectable. After all, they're cousins. He've seen the way he would smile a genuine one when she would smile up at him, too. And Richie can't believe that; Henry fucking Bowers can actually be normal and loving, for fuck's sake.

"Richie, are you listening? The fuck are you looking at, idiot?" Eddie Kaspbrack's hazelnut hair wax into a barrier in front of Rich's Styx eyes, blocking the serene view of the girl he's been liking for almost-a-fucking-decade. A sigh of vexation is outed to the world, a sigh that doesn't bask itself in prominence. He's learned to hide the 'unimportant': his opinion, his problems, his whole being.

Meeting with Eddie's fauna orbs, the disappointment in his own darker ones has been masked by mischief. Mischief, his trusted pal. "Oh sorry, Eds. My mind was just a little fuzzy, can't get my mind off of the image of your mom when I'm pounding on her last night." standing upright from his previous sitting on the bench they titled as their own, Richie's bony fingers waft in front of his obnoxiously thrusting hips, his red tongue sticking out in full display out of his chapped lips.

"Ew, Richie, that's disgusting." Stanley Uris grimaced, shaking his head as if he's still not used to the rugged boy's antics. "Stop it."

Bill Denbrough interfered, the stutter dead like Summer Break... most of it, normally. "Stan, he's been doing this his whole life, we're there to watch it grow."

"What, you don't like me doing this, Stan the Man?" and he did the act again.

"Richie, slow down." Ben Hanscom chuckled, eyes appearing chinky in spite of the baby fat being gone. Ever since he joined the football team, it's suddenly gone, like his presence towards the Club. Him joining them at lunchbreak, hang outs on the weekends, swimming at the quarry have been in rarity nowadays. Yet, all of them understood. That's them; understanding, like the stars that highlights over the dusky sky at night.

Tozier never slowed down. Someone finally smack him upside the head, the long curls bouncing in motion and slightly knocking off his thin-framed glasses' axis. The gesture flipping him into shutdown as he pivot towards Eddie whose hands are showing emphasis, right hand's back of the palm on top of the left's open one. "This, is why you don't get a fucking girlfriend. Do you understand that?"

"Chill out, Eddie babes─"

Then Beverly Marsh's giggle sounded around their occupied area under a tree, the obnoxious boy's head rotating towards the direction of the gentle ray of sunshine. Renowned hair of tawny embers and summer dresses dance in fiery lambency while bees feebly flutter around her frame, a cigarette in her candle-like fingers, like hers minus the cancer stick. "That's why Eddie broke up with you, dickhead."

"That was a homo relationship of two fifteen-year-old boys, we don't even know what we were doing! It's puppy love, get over it, Marsh." his friends never knew the haunting secret, just like hers. It's keep secured to their own. Jules doesn't know Richie likes her back, and vice versa. No one knows. Yes, he did date the germophobe, but something was missing. He wasn't content. And there was magnanimous relief that swished around his brooding veins when Eddie asked to end their juvenile commitment.

"Beverly is completely right."

"The fuck, Eds, you don't love me by my element?" and once again, he did the act. This time, in which he didn't know, she was watching him with a crimson beam etched against her squishy cheeks. And someone was watching her, too.

✦

Social Studies. First period. Henry and Jules find sharing the same class with Beverly as soon as the lassie of striking embers and raspberry lips enter the gateway of the assigned room, smelling of Fortune cigarettes and Daisies. It's crystalline that the two girls have something in common: both have the similar scent (Beverly's tobacco is more dominant than the flora fragrance unlike Jules'), fair skin, red lips especially when coated in cosmetics even if it's transparent, and the only girl of a group of boys. The difference is: Beverly is fire and Jules is ice, and everybody is well-informed of that.

The brunette girl always thought what it would be like if they became friends, if she had swam towards the lighthouse and not the dark island that she end up in. Maybe she'll have someone who she can chat about boys like real girls do. Maybe she'll have someone who she can go shopping without complaints─wait, no, Henry doesn't verbally complain, but his eyes would scream out of boredom that she would feel bad and finish the activity with only three shirts. Maybe she won't be keeping secrets about the boy she likes. Maybe... just maybe.

Jules saw her alone that first day of middle school. Brave and confident and pretty. But it was too late, she's already entered her prophecy since the morning she woke up from her mother's soft smile and greeting of 'Molly... hey, honey, it's your first day of school'.

Beverly takes her seat beside the window, four chairs apart and two chairs forward from Jules. She watch her every move like how Stan would watch the birds in the expression of freedom spiralling around buildings of trees from a hill with his contemporary binoculars of 1989. Her mind craving foreign. She's had enough of the familiarity. She wants a friend that is a girl.

Henry, who's seated beside her, discern the contact of Jules' globes with something. Applying vigor to have the knowledge of what his cousin is staring at, discomfiture splash his whole body when Beverly is in line of her vision, a cold shower that entirely confused him. He concerned, "Hey, Jules, you good or what?"

The chocolate hair that reach at least an inch and a half below her shoulders sway like a flowy dress, eyes bluer than usual, "Huh? Oh, yeah, I'm fine." then the thought of her having a friend that is a girl went with Ben Hanscom's baby fat; gone. Because she remembered that her best friend is beside her, forever. No one can intercept into their majestic bond of devils and angels, the both of them strongly believe.

"Bowers." Ms. Bobby voiced above the chattering of the classroom, no one had acknowledged her entrance that should be respected, a sign of 12th graders not learning from the past years. When two pairs of eyes chain connection with the early-thirties woman, she elaborated, "Not you, Jules. Henry." And Jules' vivid orbs became one with the others, reluctantly sending rudeness to the boy who held the name from the special mention.

He seems nonchalant, but the flurry of snowflake is the only one in the room who can see the flashing anxiousness within his hazel spheres, she's the only one who can understand him. "You have repeated once again." Ms. Bobby stated, her hands supporting her upper body on the teacher's desk for leisure time. Jules agreed that she didn't deserve the supposedly respect that the class could've given her earlier. Even if she's older and 'have had many experiences in life and I'm just in my early thirties', she could've at least respect her students, too. Old people aren't the only worthy of respect on earth.

"Obviously." his voice is calm and collected, but there's a hint of rage and catastrophe as his eyes burn a forest wildfire. "That's why I'm here."

Ms. Bobby hummed, and at last began the talent that she should be doing since she step into the room.

"Fucking queer," Henry whispered, he's attempting to not be thrown in detention at the end of the day, it's just the first day. His cousin's ears perk up at the muted retort while a snicker of sparkling effervescent has been stopped by her teeth that used to be lined with braces. Jules doesn't concede the homophobic comment, yet she lets it slide for she will do the same─but using other kinds of words, and in her mind so no one can hear including Henry. The teacher's pixie cut made the students think that she is.

First day of school is ususally introduction and orientation... well, the first three days. And that agenda is followed through the whole hour of first period, like the next few hours after that. Jules shared Language and Literature with Beverly the second period, since they're not friends, they didn't talk to each other as the way it always been. Jules' friends don't get along with Beverly's friends, that only materializes for them to not talk unless needed, a tsunami of awkwardness would wash over them that they would rather drink battery acid. Howbeit, the reticent twain have always thought that it would be nice to have a friend that is a girl. Jules is a nice girl in defiance of being friends with complete opposites. And she thinks Beverly is too, regardless of the rumors about her being legitimate or not.

History. Third period has no Henry nor Patrick, but there's Stanley Uris, Bill Denbrough, and Greta Bowie that Molly Jules immensely loathe. Greta tried to befriend the Bowers girl, and it's clear as purified water, simple as addition in Mathematics why. High school is all reputations and people you hang out with, not the actual rationale of preparing yourself for the torture of life. Jules doesn't like prideful ogres in her life that slut shame their own kind; girls, females, women. Bowie must've made all of the girls in the building feel worthless and dirty, Molly excluded. For fuck's sake, she's cousins with Henry Bowers and friends with unrefined beasts, Greta would be dead on a ditch if she even tried.

Fourth hour is lonely and hushed, the cause of her taking a seat beside the window. With loneliness gliding around her like the bees that's been following her for a few hours now, random thoughts project into her cerebrum, appearing her as blind while the twinkling indigo's have a rest on the motion and pavements of the outside.

Retro cars hustle into destiny like the birds that pause from their journey and reward themselves a breather on a tree for travelling enough. Grass that garners a bright green pigment because of the Summer heat and freedom that many of the highschoolers will miss. Periwinkle welkins swirl in an effulgent glaze that compliments the white and yellows of the dazzling sun of 11:00. And then his beautiful face of supernova, and slender and delicate touches of cosmic anatomy. The final one is her favorite view out of them all, even if it's the only fiction that her mind just flashed, it's not veritable like the cars and birds and greens and blues.

She wonders if she'd have a class with Richard Tozier. The generic thought of it pumps in spirited drive and excitement that it encourages her to sit up from her lounging. Molly Bowers didn't know that he's thinking the same thing, and hoping that at least one subject can fulfill the emptiness. Just by seeing her, he remembers that he's real. He doesnt know that, though. But his soul does.

Metaphor; soulmates.


	4. Chapter Three

**Molly Julienne Bowers' Point of View**

Noon struck the hemisphere, an excruciating ring of the bell and students flooding the hallways for the cafeteria are the waking reminders of lunchbreak. Instead of maneuvering towards the said area, I walk with my hair rest back behind my ears and shoulders that completely shows my delicate face, my own mannerism of gripping the straps of my backpack for safety is in display too. Henry walk beside me in the same pace as to the usual in the parking lot that we devotionally occupy when lunch strikes. But this is now different. We're not reposing on Reginald's Trans AM anymore. Another impaling remembrance of growth. Shit's really fucking happening.

The lasting Summer wind shock our faces once we step into the open space, two noses scrunching at the ardent weather as the rays of the sun unfold zealously unlike the morning streaks of mellowness. Grand doors of the entrance slam back into place, withal Hen informed, "Pat's gotta do some other shit. He'll be here later on."

"M'kay," I chirpped, nodding while my head pivot slightly to look at his fauna orbs that some hair revealed over my right shoulder, though my ears clutch a stronghold to the chocolate strands. He was chuckling to himself, and I feel my velvet lips curving into a smile, "Why are you laughing, are you on something?"

A shrug of his shoulders is shaken out by his low chuckles, "It's just─ you're wearing fuckin' heels that makes you taller than me. I'm like, the one lookin' up at you, not the other way 'round. It's so weird."

Girly giggles emanates from my throat like a euphony as I place myself in front of him and walk in reverse. Madonna's 'Material Girl' chime into my brain of juvenile happiness, the dazzling sun on my cousin's lips making my own reach the sky. "I'm growing, Henry!" I raised my arms up to the height of palm trees, clenched fists of victory, base of my ribs feeling the cotton material of my tight blouse. "I wear heels and makeup!" Precisely; lipgloss only.

"Oh, please." the beam is stubborn enough to go with the feeble shakes of his head. "Don't grow up, Jules."

"It's too late now, Hen." then I'm skipping towards the rural automobile where Henry and I will be ingesting the food my mother prepared, singing 'Material Girl' to join the birds for the first time in a long time.

"Molly, I swear, don't you dare fuckin' trip... fuckin' Jules, you makin' me feel old."

Planting myself on top of the hood, a sound of country metal elicited when it's met with human weight. My slim fingers cast a spell to unzip my bag for the awaited food, Henry finding his place beside the big headlights and my knees. Japan essence waft around our occupied space when I take off the lid of my antibacterial lunchbox. The food is divided into two sections; coated chicken strips of shiny film of thickened soy sauce and sesame seeds are on the left, and the clean white rice is on the right. They wink at us and that's the last straw for me to begin the process of splitting it in half, operating with the fork that I'll be eating with─since Henry is using the spoon, that's been the concurrence that I proclaimed.

I perpetually get the first bite being the food is from me, and soon the wailing of my stomach has died when I swallowed a spoonful of the Japanese cuisine integrity, then initiated a conversation with Hen about AC/DC once I feel tranquility inside my organs. From all the introducing and orienting that conveyed in the past hours, my breakfast has evaporated into nutrients and lost energy, resulting for no more fuel in my system.

Not too long after, the redolence of burning tobacco and paper is more dominant than the eatable's evocativeness. The second-hand smoke purposely relinquished in the direction of the almighty prominent utterance of nature─my best friends protecting me─away from my face, so I can't have an inhale of the much worse gas. My lungs are kept tidy and undamaged. I am reserving it for him and the flowers that he will gift to me in the future... if the spiritual king up above even lets that ravishing idea happen.

Raven hair and unattractive scrawny build finally manifest in front of us. The sun is radiating hotter than before, but the promoting strength of the wind encourages us to stay outside. Hence, his elongated face is also scrunching up, way less than the first ten minutes of Hen and I's exposure in the parking lot. My body cannot wait for Winter, the favorite season of my whole being.

Patrick's flannel draped over from my thighs to my exposed knees like a fleecy blanket, thus my legs slightly unlatched from each other and allowed air to whisper within my inner thighs, lastly relaxing the muscles from their tensed form for the past few hours. The pad of his right hand's fingers fondle the crown of ebony hair for a friendly pat, puff-sleeved shoulders bouncing with every mass that meets the top of my head.

"The hell happened to you?" I interrogated, my eyes that might seem extra bluer squinting under the waves of white heat. Eyes and the sun are good together. They reflect each other's beauty and lights the darkness for people to descry the value and livelihood of human race.

"Got held up by some jackass. Didn't like me talking back. Where the fuck is my care in the first place? I don't ever care."

"So you in detention or somethin'?" my left hand mail the famous lunchbox forward, just ahead of Henry's internally blazing core. He dashed the burning stick that built a home between his fingers cruelly on the magmatic ground and held the box of food with so much fragility. Henry Bowers is an undomesticated flamethrower that scares people in multiple ways, while he's just a tiny candlelight that brings me amusement.

"Yeah," he nodded, announcing with a timber of luminous obviousness. Then he groaned when he heard his stomach growl, head throwing back in botheration, raven hair flying by the swift motion. "fuck, I'm fucking starving. My mom didn't packed me lunch."

"Quit fuckin' complaining, Hockstetter. I'll leave some for your sick ass." Henry is generous, too. Well, only to the people he's friends with.

"Hey Pat," his dark orbs squint towards my own, "you know you should apply some effort this time. Like, stop getting yourself into detention kind of effort."

"What-fucking-ever, Molly. It's easy for you to say, but I don't get straight A's by just sitting pretty, kitten."

"I'm just looking out for you! Don't wanna see you laying unconscious on a fuckin' gutter after five years. Perhaps imagine yourself decomposing in the sewers that you're too skinny the rain washed you away because you can't afford food since you don't have a job. I'll gladly help you and Hen. You guys want to get out of this hellhole, right?" it's like convincing them to be in my crew for a heist.

The small threat maybe scared him off, because he surrendered. "Fine! Whatever. I'll go try and not get myself in detention at least, fucking priss." I mildly punched his arm for the insult that I don't deserve, and him ruffling my hair is his payback, the cocoa strands in disarray of tussles. Then we shared a mischievous grin with each other, one that is vastly heavy-duty than the blasting heat of noon.


	5. Chapter Four

**Richard Tozier's Point of View**

"I think I wanna skip." fresh smoke from a Fortune cigarette crawls within my throat in target for the lungs. But when it reached the saccular organ and discovered nothing good in it, the fresh smoke mutate into a much worse gas as soon as it departs my body. My lungs absorbing the freshness and leaving it on a ditch. A ghost of damage like my insides. Much like Beverly's, too.

Marsh is seated beside me, her pastel yellow dress delicately flowing with the wind that gets their way under the bleachers where we repose. She's like the relaxed sun, literally. The mellow yellows and whites that dressed her today are pleasing to the eyes of many people, the people that envy her vicious beauty. Our forearms rest on our knees, the burning cancer stick cling between our fingers, she replied, "Then skip."

"I think I don't want to as well." it's fifth period, the second half of the hour, lunch just ended exactly forty-seven minutes ago. I anticipated to be alone with my thoughts solely, except Beverly found me here cutting Calculus that I share with fuckin' Henry Bowers, she said she didn't want to be in Spanish and would rather smoke five packs of tobacco filled rolls of paper─yet she only have one, and since I don't have some cigarettes with me and she's got a new pack, I begged for a spare that I now owe her. The day will end soon, next period is the last one for today and I haven't known if I'll be having it with her. Maybe it's alright if I skip, miracles don't even happen to me. Ever.

Despondency has been living in my veins and bloodstreams ever since my deadbeat dad started downing liquor instead of water. Went Tozier. I don't know what's gotten into his mind to not care anymore, to lose his sanity that my beautiful mother and I enjoyed. He used to be someone. He used to go to work happy and come home in the same state of smiles and chuckles, but ever since he lost his job at the newspaper company as a journalist, it's like he's lost everything. My father forgot the once ethereal beam that is titled as his wife by vandalizing her beautiful face with ugly tattoos of bruises and blames. And he forgot about me as he does the same. We have no value to him anymore, much like the dust that builds on top of the furnitures at his office at home. Worthless.

Maggie is the strongest woman I have ever met in my entire seventeen years of living. Indeed, she talks to me at night when my dad is pass out drunk while crytalline, saltwater liquid is streaming down her sickly pale face, rivers of pain and bafflement. When did things get this wrong? She would ask me, but I'm vulnerable just like her, I couldn't answer her complex inquisitions. We're together through this toxicity, my mom would never leave me, because we only have each other. Aurora Borealis; she bathes herself with light and rarity in the darkest of creations. The only white gold amongst silvers.

Beverly's shallow oceans meet my black coffee ones, red lips shaping a beam and she's attempting to mask her melodious giggles that I really love. My best friend that actually understands me more than the others could. She reminds me of my mom and I think I love her, platonically. "The fuck is wrong with you, Tozier? Are you seriously being indecisive right now?"

I chuckled my own, head rotating back to the front to face the open football field, "I've been indecisive ever since I met Bill's mom." my ears tip at the sound of her tsk and flock of giggles, then we both take another drag in unity, letting go at the same time as well.

Serenity swim inside our fluid orbs of youthful rogue, vastly powerful that it splash around the ambience in tsunami waves. When all of us are in the quarry under the iron streaks of the Summer afternoon and the wind is a bit cool, I would take a pause just to witness the Losers' own beams. That's what it feels like. Serene. Slowed.

Then I direct my vision to the fiery girl beside me, pollen cotton fictionally floating around her, fairness spreading inside and out. She used to have her extensive hair in a low ponytail specifically laid over her left shoulder, and then one day she cut it herself too short, probably for her jackass of a dad to stop touching it like gays do to their blonde lassie friends. But now it's grown, just on her shoulders, copper waves of damsel delicateness. Meadows of beige freckles are crafted lightly over her whole face, though inwardly they're sprinkles of granulated black peppers as its raw spice is stored around her burning heart. I need someone like her, she keeps me grounded because she's achingly strong.

The final plasma of the cigarette has been fused with the wind, and the two butts are thrown amongst their own kind on the grass beneath us, Timberland and Converse stepping on the weak roll of paper filled with filter. Fresh oxygen from the leaves of the trees crawl within our throats in target for the lungs, cleansing the poison that wasn't supposed to be there in the first place.

"What do you have next, Rich?" it's the last topic before we head back to the hallways of students marching towards their next class. The bell just rang and I didn't feel the anxiety that I once felt at 8th grade when I started skipping or cutting.

Ebony curls of my own sway to the side, a whisper of encouragement from the wind to make me attend this final one. I rasped, "Biology." an eccentric and eye-opening subject for humans.

"Are you skipping or what?"

"Fuck, fine." it's a silent phrase under my breath, giving in to the ceaseless begging of the wind that won't leave my hair alone. "I'm going... maybe I'd take Ms. Romee home after and have her not to come tomorrow, sounds good right?"

She rolled her eyes, swimming pools in disorganization because of the cause of my words of earthquake. "That's not saying much. You think you can wreck her that bad?"

"What, do you want to see it yourself? Just tell me, Beaver-ly."

"Whatever, four-eyes."

"Do you see this shit?" I hold my silver thin-framed glasses (not the black thick-framed ones that massively drags me down), purposely inching my face a tiny bit closer to possess illumination to her thick skull. "These skinny motherfuckers are sexy. Women and men love these glasses!"

"Still, four-eyes."

Just what is expected; stupid fucking highschoolers swerve their lanes to class like this is NASCAR. We strut the hallways smelling of nicotine and Daisies that most of the people grew familiar with, the people who are nosy enough to feign a care and create this notion of Bev and I fucking amidst school hours. Seriously, when the fuck would they start minding their own business and stop being gross? The latter appears hypocritical coming from me. Still, all of us are hypocrites even if that drench itself in an infinite puddle of obscurity.

Marsh and I parted ways when she told me she'll be taking a minute in the bathroom to do touch-ups or something like that. So Chuck Taylor journeying solo with no Timberland accompanying the same pace is boring and lonely. I stopped by at my locker to get my notebook for the said subject that I would want to skip but will give a chance, and Bill was behind me when I slammed it shut.

"Holy shit!" I stopped my heart from leaping out of my chest, a hefty sigh calming down the goosebumps that rose everywhere. "What the fuck, dude? You're on some stalker shit or something? Don't go creeping on me like that, Billy Boy."

He giggles, smiles, cute and kiddish. And this time, Nike Cortez are accompanying me through the halls of stupid fucking highschoolers. "Sorry. I saw you and wanted to ask what's your next one."

"It's Biology. I was thinking of skipping but Bevvie was challenging me if I could fuck Ms. Romee down and not get her to teach tomorrow 'cause she's too torn to walk. How about you, what do you have next?" I'm not actually going to do it, and both of us know that. Hell, even God himself. And it's not like I even tried or going to try, that's sick. But these enunciations are natural as birth that I couldn't stop it from spraying. Sometimes I want it to stop. I want someone to make it stop. I need that someone to make it stop. Who is that someone?

"I got arts." he answered, and the drawing of my best friend that he once made popped into my head instead of a light bulb. It was when we were at 8th grade and he's got a huge crush on Bev, his brother just died a few months back... no, correction: maybe almost a year, so not just a few months, and Eddie and I were sleeping over. My hyperactive eccentricity started raining like that specific night, and I found the beautiful art. I teased him about it for exactly two weeks─hyperactive eccentricity─and Stan was getting mad and Eddie can't stop beeping me. As of now, I don't know if he still has a crush on her. It must hurt him if he still does, Beverly likes someone at the moment, and it's a girl who she doesn't tell. But I know she's secretly in love with Big Benjamin Hanscom, too. Talk about two-timer here.

I forgot that I was walking, because Bill is shouting my ear off that we've reached the gateway of the Science Lab, one of the exceptional classrooms that I genuinely think is gnarly. Probably because it's a laboratory filled with Science and trippy crap and have bigger windows. "Oh shit. Sorry, Big Bill. Just thinking about who I'd fuck after Ms. Romee. Been thinking about your mom lately─"

"Richie, please control your hormones─"

"Pip, pip, tallyho! Go on get those feet working to class, lad." and he's off the wind after he sent me another smile. The bell just rang too, and the Art room is on the other wing. I barge in with the others that I will get to call plain classmates. Two columns, six rows of antiseptic wide desks that can be immersed by two people in maximum, gnarly shot captured by my magnified eyes. Detecting an empty one at the farthest corner on my left at the very back, my feet veer towards the prized possession immediately, frightened that somebody may take it. It looks like the best seat in town, perhaps.

Planting myself on the chair beside the huge window, thus the chair next to me is surely not going to be occupied now. The process of me dropping my bag on the floor and not watching the people around me shift around has commensed. It's better this way. I mean, I don't know anyone, might just mind my own business. But again, I was wrong like when I thought I'll be alone under the bleachers, though I don't lift a muscle to see who sat beside me... it's just the last person who entered the room and noticed everything is occupied aside from the seat beside me, probably, for sure. Keeping my eyes chained to a certain place is easy, because my mind is doing the chaos and I can't bug anybody which is an advantage for them. It makes me look like a total fool, I shouldn't be sucking up people's sufferings, that's unbearably unfair. Where is that someone? Who is that someone?

The room is quiet under Ms. Romee's sweet voice, I can feel it even if I'm not looking. I can feel the silence and her talking with confidence. She was... she is a nice teacher. Young, pretty, and doesn't get mad at my presence. Her laughs are gentle too, like when I would ask a question in a mixture of humor and uncomic, she would laugh and answer my question because it's not thoroughly a fucking joke unlike what other teachers think. I think it's better if we have educators like her, they would understand their pupils even more being the little difference of age gap. They would get if their pupils are asking a real question or just clowning around. If they're just clowning around, it's alright to proceed to the next part, it's not that big of a deal since it's just a joke anyway.

It's starting to shift again. The room is shifting and vibrating, and I don't know why. Silence is gone, like the person beside me. Muffled noise is what I hear, fuck I've went too far inside my brain, may need to come back to be fucking real again for fuck's sake. Last time I checked I was real, my fingers rubbed into each other's pads to just feel if I was really here, I did it again and I'm still here. But, I'm taking way too slow to depart my head, because the noise is still muffled and the room is still vibrating and shifting. And─

Lavenders. I smell Lavenders. Why the fuck do I smell Lavenders? _Wait, I know those Lavenders, I know it._ I snapped to turn and look why I smell the pale purple flower, and was met with Cocoa hair rested back behind ears and shoulders, cherubic face glowing in full display like it's from a celestial museum. She has her fiddling hands and forearms on the desk just like mine. She's pressing her lips together that it makes them even more red than before, almost like a pigmented strawberry or raspberry. Her puffed-sleeved shoulders are to her ears, she's attempting to relax them, but they're too stubborn and bounces back to being tensed. She smells of Lavenders.

Cherubs and Lavenders and Vanilla and Cocoa linearity. I see bees. The wind. Fuck, she's sitting beside me. Is she the one sitting here before? I didn't smell the Lavenders.

I finally let out an anxious sentence for the first time since I got here. And it took a lot of courage for me to do so. "Have you... uh, been sitting here the whole time?"

We finally met eye contact, too. I don't know if her eyes have been this blue. Royal blue. Deep ocean. Sparkling indigo. Effervesce blue moon eclipse. I think her eyes are getting bluer. Maybe I'm just hallucinating from the cigarettes, that's why I don't trust anything except Marlboro. But I really think her eyes are getting bluer. Her Lavenders are filling my nose but it's not drowning. The wind. I'm not drowning, I'm flying. Is this flowery vertigo? Flowery vertigo. What the fuck is flowery vertigo?

"No, uh, the girl sitting beside you moved to her partner's table. Ms. Romee announced we're partners, for the... whole year." What a cliché thing to fucking happen.

And then I realized something. I came back to being real because of her.


	6. Chapter Five

**Third Person Point of View**

She smells Fortune cigarettes and Daisies wafting from the boy beside her, and she thought how platonically close him and Beverly are. Maybe much like her and Henry, too. He said it himself this morning, her flora perfume is sticking to his clothes along with the Camels stench that she unfortunately gets from him. And discussing with her own self now, she thinks she likes the nicotine zest in her clothes... just only a tiny bit though. It gives something like story.

The Science Lab is filled with chatters and gasps and giggles and chuckles, they appear exceedingly excited to be operating with their partners, making an effort to know each other enough that they would enjoy the activities and projects that will be tackled for senior year. All of them are loud and happy, except for one specific table; farthest corner on Ms. Romee's left at the very back. It was achingly quiet, and awkward. Awkward sufficient that the educator can feel the tension as her shoulders go up to her ears as well.

Jules felt green electromagnetic waves penetrating from the front of the room towards her head that is kept low for comfort. With the four walls, the energy is finite and direct that it's easy to receive by whom it's directed to. The teenage girl lift her head a minimum amount, the once sparkling indigo are now the calm ocean that staring at the table for eleven minutes has rooted. But then it effervesce to motion when the teacher's tan complexion, dirty-blonde hair, and close-lipped smile are gesturing for her to talk to the shy boy beside her, casual since the brunette falls in the category of her favorites─she's smart and likeable despite of being related to Henry Bowers.

Her oceanic globes glance beside her, the boy with Rock 'n' Roll clothes and silver Harry Potter glasses. A sigh of 'fine, I'll man up' is breathed out by her button nose after she connect another rendezvous with Ms. Romee's encouraging earthly ones. Starting with sitting properly, ladylike, like how posh mothers would want their daughters to sit down as they sip on prim cups of tea with their pinkies up. Molly's dainty hands rest politely on her lap, on top of the cotton red-plaid skirt.

What to think what to think what to think what to fucking say? Universe, help me. Oh, wind, please. Code red.

Problem: they're both shy.

She cleared her throat, silent but clear enough for his organs and livelihood to be in a chaos of anxiety. His heart pumping more blood, his lungs swelling in gigantic breaths, all of it are happening inside and he needed a cigarette. She glanced again, detecting him laid back on leisure, not like his insides and generally her that is frankly in disarray.

"Hey, Richie." she hesitated, but the words are already out. There's no turning back.

The honey voice is sweeter than Ms. Romee's that he should've been listening to in the first place. It might've been good if he listened, he might've been not too shocked by the pivot of moments and happenings. He might've prepared himself amidst the shifting and vibrating instead of listening to the muffled noises like a person that just stands there doing nothing through an 8.7 magnitude of an earthquake. He might've saw her strut her way to his desk like the tiled floor of the room is a runway. He might've been captivated by her angelic fluttering or ballerina ambulation, definitely, indisputably. He might've known what to say. Might've.

He have heard her voice before. The honey voice. Her natural voice that is coated with honey ever since the making of her whole being. It never leave her voice somehow, even when she's stopping her friends from their gangster tendencies─I mean there's the authority and rage that Bowers blood garners even through generations of offsprings, but still, her voice is sweet and dainty like the hands that rested on her lap.

He replied, still not knowing what to really say. "Jules."

"Uh, yeah." she nodded, her hand lifted from the solace of her skirt, fingers brushing back the hair behind her ear in defiance of it not leaving the part. "Um, I was just... um... you know, nevermind. Sorry... for bothering you."

Then she bullies herself, dragging herself by her arm towards her brain where no one can hear. Oh my God, you're actually stupid you could've done better. Holy shit! What the fuck was that?! That's very stupid and senseless and weak-minded and irrational and despicable and lame of you! Nevermind? Um I was just? Seriously, what the fuck? What the fuck, Jules? Got damn in the first fuckin' try! How is your first impression now? It's damned!

"You smell nice." it's a decent sentence to start with for making friends. Not really. But it's a decent sentence to halt the promoting torture Jules is giving herself. When the word 'sorry' escape her mouth like it's a bee from the meadows, it gave him strength to voice something out that is decent. Normal. Proper. Like how she's sitting that slightly scared him off and start to think if he needs to sit that way too. Richie knows she's not like Bowers (the other Bowers who is a psychopath), she's the good kind of Bowers. She's the angel that got stuck in the Bowers' gang and cousins with the leader but that doesn't mean she needs to be in the maniac-based gang. And she's not snappy unless tried.

"Really?" her head turned to him, Styx eyes already staring at her. Her own eyes are beginning to be alive again. Sparkle and effervesce and bright and blue and indigo.

And then natural enunciations are sprayed out. The things he couldn't stop. "Well, better than Eddie's mom's underwear." not too much. Toned down and slightly more bearable than the rest he could've say. Is it too much? It's not. Because she giggled, low and genuine, she's smiling with her cochineal lips and her squishy cheeks are shining that he wanted to pinch them gently. Cherubic.

"They don't call you 'Trashmouth' for nothing, huh?" her upper body is relaxing, her posture is not proper anymore, it's natural. The posh mothers are scolding her, but she doesn't care. She's talking with the boy she likes and she wants to be cool. The nerves made her sit upright, it wasn't fain. This is natural. He relaxed her. Just like what she also did.

"Oh so you've heard?"

And that's the finale of their introduction. They talk and talk and talk and talk until they felt like it's the end of the world tomorrow. They talk like their classmates. Chatters and gasps and giggles and chuckles galvanizing their motormouths that he's mentally surprised to witness from her. He can detect the Camels cigarette from her the longer they're in contact now, and a little bit of Cucumber somewhere around, and thinks, Holy shit, she might have smelled the Daisies. I hope she's not thinking Bev and I are fucking, because that's abhorrent, really. She's my best friend, and I love her not-romantically.

Topics are them, them are topics. Words form into sentences and sometimes they would pretend that they don't know anything about each other, but in fact they do, and that's alright. He would artificially widen his eyes when she unknowingly informs things that he already know. And she would gasp in faux arrangement when he would say something that she already know. They pretend with one another and that's alright. Though, they don't know they pretend with one another. Is that alright? They've watched from afar for years and now they're looking straight into each other's dilating pupils that Jules' is almost black like his. A blue moon eclipse, if that even exists perchance─it does between them, they're one vortex along with new cosmos and specs that has been forming for the past thirty minutes. So beautiful and raw. Imagine it with a sun.

But there are stuff that they don't know about one another as well. Like an iceberg with the tip in exhibition, yet they don't know there's something more, deeper, darker underneath. I mean, they've just watched, not precisely have the knowledge. Such as what bands they listen to, which is a lightweight subject, simple and basic that they don't know. The weighty and tragic ones can wait, for him at least, whereas she doesn't really have troubling experiences unlike most of the kids in Derry.

"Really? Mine's Nirvana, The Psychedelic Furs, and, uh, Led Zeppelin. You know I thought you like... I don't know, Slayer or some other death metal shit." he had commented when she answered with The Police, The Clash, and AC/DC for his unsurprising quiz.

"Slayer is dishevelment." she didn't attempt to simple her words that are embellished here and there, she's had English with him at 10th grade and they are obligated to make a speech about the future that they need to declaim as well. She knew he would understand. "I needed to listen to them because Hen and the others do, it's not like I like it, I just like the electric guitars. They don't let me near the stereo, you know, because they think I would play Madonna."

"Do you like Madonna, though?"

"I, fucking, do. Greatly, Richie, honorably. She's, like, the best female artist in the world!"

"We would get along pretty well, Jules."

If topics are papers, there would be a stack beside them in the height of skyscrapers. Up to the ozone layer, Derry High's roof is destroyed. Paper skyscrapers filled with topics, and Richie and Jules. They are brimming of juvenile energy that seems like it has been stocked within their hearts and lungs and brains for eons. And all of it are unleashing right now, right here. 12th grade. Biology. Ms. Romee's gift of chopping her class into duos.

'You smell nice' is a decent sentence to start with for making friends after all. It's similar to how bees or butterflies would begin with towards an exquisite flower they had seen and wanted to share their talents and gifts for them to prosper together. Unity, like what Ms. Romee is letting her students practice. She had asked for them to tone the clamor down twice and they have actually obliged, it was a sign of 12th graders actually learning from the past years. That has been a topic, too. Jules told Richie that Ms. Bobby was being an old bitch this morning and she deserved no one fucking respecting her accession into the doorway of Social Studies, he responded that Beverly had told them earlier at lunch about that and genuinely they don't know what to feel, they had laughed with bees and nicotine breaths.

But then the shifting and vibrating has started again when the last bell of the day rang in triumph for the success of the first day, and Richie is here to see and not just feel. Gathering their stuff is melancholic on the inside, quite flabbergasting in the eyes of their classmates for the two teenagers that are sitting with festering awkwardness at the first twenty minutes of the subject. Yet the conversing haven't expired, even when Jules stood up with her extremely pretty Mary Jane's.

"Woah, woah, woah. Jules, you're a fucking giant." he was still on his seat, legs spread wide while he grab a hold of his backpack that sat on the floor sightlessly, because his spheres have a bracelet with hers. Blue, black, blue, black, blue, black.

A giggle of Chruch bells elicited from her lips, gentler and more pleasant than the final bell. Richie liked it much more; school day ending with honey and bees. "Richie, imagine if you stand up. What comes next after giant? That's literally you."

He did stand up, towering her frailly that her head was tilting back in which neither of them want their apocalyptically ravishing bracelet of contact to break. "Seriously, Jules, how many inches those heels are? And how tall are you?" a beam of pink chapped lips is radiant, and she devastatingly loves it.

"Heels are four inches. I'm five foot six inches without heels. What about you, how tall are you?" she asked, fixing the straps of her backpack around her, cocoa linearity loosing the grip from her ears and shoulders, and he wants to brush them back behind where she would lay them to exhibit the art fully again. But she's already doing it once her Adidas bag is situated nicely like fairy wings. And it's not like he's got the self-trust to do it anyway.

"I'm five foot eleven inches." his sable curls bounce when he nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders. "And your heels are longer than Stan's dick."

She giggled again, and now her fine fingers vine around the straps of her backpack just how he had watched from afar, "I'll see you tomorrow, Richie. Go home safe." and the connection is broken, she's strutting her way out of the room that the two of them are the only ones left, and he's captivated.

They didn't know what was that. But a beam has been gracing itself on their loud and happy lips at the thought of them really talking at last, like sentences and topics and wide eyes and laughs, really talking.

For the first time in a thousand years, she felt freedom and a breath of fresh air. Richie may not be a girl, but she likes─okay, she loves it, too much─the idea of them being friends, at least. For now, just friends. A new friend that is not lunatically crazy; it rings a melodic harmony of silver Harry Potter glasses and fireflies of freckles. New friend. Unfamiliar. Unknown. And she was just craving foreign earlier this morning. "This will do for now, Jules." the universe had said to her, and she's grinning like a lunatic, giddy and alright.

Mellow wind fan her squishy cheeks and trenchant yet delicate face. The chocolate tuft are swaying with every step that she take, light and airy, straight and hydrated. "What took you so- holy fuck, your eyes are so fuckin' blue... and weird, did you take something I swear I'm gonna kill you if you did. Who made you do it? I thought you don't like doing that? And what the fuck are you smilin' for, Jules?" Henry had his arms against his chest, a brow raised in perplexity as he laid back on the driver's door of his truck.

"Nothing." she beamed at him, nose scrunched and eyes crinkling like the stars at night. "Are we waiting for Pat? I want to go home."

"Nah, let's get you home." that's what he did. He let AC/DC play in max, and for the first time in a while, she thoroughly enjoy the ride.

As Jules is enjoying the infinity and the wind that whips the strands out of her ears and shoulders, head that is slightly out of the frame of the open windows, Richie is walking with the Losers (except Ben, per usual) on the way to Mike Hanlon's farm. A smile would grace their lips when they would remember the miracle that occurred at Biology, and the Losers would ask Rich why he's smiling like an idiot, of course he would reply something much like, "I had the best sex with Ms. Romee earlier at the janitor's closet. We can't wait, you know. She was really going it deep with her mou-" and at least three of the Losers would beep him in unison that Beverly would chuckle with him as she mutter 'you're an idiot'.

Dazzling smiles on their faces of having a new friend. Something new yet not at the same time.


	7. Chapter Six

**Richard Tozier's Point of View**

Dizzy-inducing redolence of flinty alcohol swim around the house instead of oxygen, sticky and drowning that I needed to breathe inside my jean jacket to pump life back into my body. The record player in the living room is playing gentle blues, insanely opposite to the man who's letting it swim with Whiskey in the house's climate.

Sandpaper voice shake my first name, and I mentally slap idiocy across my face for not thinking wise enough to climb up my window under the twinkling stars. It might be because there are no more contents within my stomach to siphon fuel for my head to function. Probably. The lovely crackers that I consumed at Mike's earlier has worn off with the energy that was used and reserved for walking home.

My feet pad against the old marble floorings in advancement towards the living room where my father is reposed on his Lazy Boy, a clear glass exposing the load of kerosene-colored liquor. Beside him is my mom. Beautiful mom with her eyes swelled. No new bruises or saturation which only express that he was making her feel glum when I was gone until crytalline, saltwater liquid is streaming down her face, rivers of pain and bafflement. What a son of a _bitch_. Fucking piece of _shit_.

"Where the _fuck_ were you? It's almost nine. It's a goddamn school night and you're wondering around town instead of coming home. What are you, a super hero that needs to check everything out and see if it's alright?" he slurred, and I want to knock him off and have my middle finger spit on his no good of a father body. When the fuck did he start caring in the first place? For fuck's sake. But I didn't do either of what I wanted, because there's no more room in my life to do something that I want. I veer my vision to my mom, and she's already staring at me with her speaking coals of encouragement, telling me that it's okay, that I can do this, that just calm down, that just answer him or else everything will get even worse than this.

I answered him, "Sorry, dad. I was just buying some needed supplies for school. That's all."

"Quit fucking lying. You're still seventeen, you don't get to do whatever the fuck you want, and go home whenever the fuck you want." he stated it effectively clear that I'm already glaring at him underneath my glasses. In times like this, I thank the individual who's in control of humans for casting the idea into my father's prideful, wrathful, useless brain for keeping the lights in the living room dim. "Go help yourself with something to eat and get your dirty piece of limbs in your room. Don't ever disrespect my house by going home late again, Richard."

He wants to talk about disrespect? Oh give me a break. But I did what he ordered me to do anyway, inasmuch as I'm fucking starving and my small intestine is practically ingesting my big intestine, I can feel it. My eyes scan the pantry packed with eatables and junk, then to the bowl of fruits, and then to the fridge presumably filled with cooked food too. The stench of not-fun-booze isn't too striking in the kitchen, thus I gladly make myself a sandwich; wheat bread, ham, lettuce, and mayonnaise so it's not dry and boring. Guts finally laying back in leisure once begin the feeding, ascending the stairs of Birch wood with the fuel within the grip of my fingers.

The warmth and security of my room is the best, and it became the greatest when I push on 'play' of the boombox that is sitting pretty beside the dozen of Playboys, Nirvana filling the room up to the rim─not too much though, just sufficient to inject tranquility within my psyche, I don't want my dad barging in my room and yelling (and slurring) to tone the music down. I guess security isn't really full on one hundred percent because of that, I'm locking it now. He'd be a deranged fuck if he bust my door open... which he already did, thrice, months back. He's entirely a deranged fuck, why did I even had fuckin' remorse for five seconds. He's a deranged fuck and he needs to leave my mother and I alone in peace.

And soon I'm sprawled over my bed, staring at the ceiling that I think is vastly uninteresting, plain. But I think through the whole day. From first period to lunch. Ditching Calc and unforeseen smoke session with Bev underneath bleachers─it's honestly not that surprising, it always happens through the past years we've been friends. And then Biology. Pormethean Biology that made my fuckin' day. It's undisputed that her eyes are more interesting than the ceiling, for sure, that's obvious and clear. I inwardly thank Beverly for making me attend that class. Or maybe I should thank the wind. That's crazy, though. But I already thanked Bev earlier in the form of talking about it when I'm walking her home. Oh, and there's a sexy Marlboro pack in the left breast pocket of my jean jacket that I bought with her amidst the journey to her apartment. No more halluci-fucking-nating.

"I have the last one with Jules Bowers." I had said, the streetlights are illuminating our skin, and her hair is really, really, really bright. It's in a low ponytail (and it's not like she can tie it in a high one regardless), displaying her whole face much like Jules', but the latter doesn't tie her hair except for Gym class. "Biology. The one I thought of skipping."

She turn to look at me, blue eyes and all. But it's way paler and way less magical than the spheres I have witnessed hours ago. "Really?"

"Yeah, she's my partner. We've talked." I'm nonchalant yet deliberate. Slow and steady just to not be too excited if she doesn't want to know. If she doesn't want to know, she might be trying.

"Really?" her eyes are wide and waiting for more. Wide and waiting. Her face is practically inching closer and closer in front of mine, like I'm a new specie that accessed earth and she's trying to know if I'm an ally or a foe.

"Yeah," I nodded my head. I'm drawing my face a little farther. She's creeping me out. "She was pretty cool... very nice, unlike her bastard of a fucking cousin."

"Really?"

I scoffed, distraught and irritation beginning to crawl around my marrows once I connect the signal that her freckles are sending. "What, is she the girl you like or something, Beaver-ly?" and she's out of my face. For fuck's sake, if she does like her, what the fuck now? Just what the fuck. Just, what the fuck.

She didn't scoff back, nor any sarcastic remark has thrown towards me. Her eyes are wide and waiting for more. But she did say, "No, I don't like her, Rich. What did you guys talk about, though?" she's eager. More eager than what her usual eagerness is. She might be lying, or she might just want to hear something not about boy stuff.

"A lot of shit, actually." a smile was cultivating on my lips, and I didn't know it was happening. "She's very... I dont know, talkative, for the lack of better word. She's talking with me, does that make sense? She's, like, not asking for me to shut the fuck up or something. Like, she's going with my own pace, you know. Or I'm going with her own pace... doesn't matter, but I was having so much fun. I feel like we've talked about anything and everything. It was... it was a nice hour to reward myself after a whole day. A little fun, you know."

Beverly is smiling. Why the fuck is she smiling? "What the fuck are you smiling for?"

"I don't know, Richie. You tell me." her brows that is the color of her burning orange hair are wiggling, challenging me for real this time. "Maybe you like her."

"What the fuck dude? I just met her. Don't be too cliché, Marsh." the problem is: it is cliché. Too fucking cliché for my system to digest straightaway. I didn't know what happened myself. We were in a conversation and we were laughing and looking and staring, and next thing she's waltzing like the princess that she is, out of the Science Lab. And I'm alone and trying to stop my smile.

The sound of her reserved scoff has sounded the quiet streets. And she's voicing with her wrist flicking in circular motions like she's making me elaborate something. She wanted more. "Whatever, Tozier. Just, what were you saying? You were spilling your guts and stuff. I await the continuation."

"Yeah, I was spilling my fucking guts until you started smiling."

"You're smiling too! But it's now gone because of me." The once laughs are gone as well, altered into a no-nonsense atmosphere that is suddenly present. It frightened me a bit, she's Beverly and she's naturally burning fire. I don't know when she'll drop a match and create a forest wildfire, way too brawny that the Government and the military fused together have no idea what to do. "Can I tell you something, Rich?"

Yet I'm smiling again. Because the sense of authenticity and need in Bev's voice made the chambers in my heart to bloom, slightly. She trust me enough for her to ask if she could tell me something. It has always been the other way around, whereas she's pretty open towards the whole group, and I'm really not. There are just some things that doesn't need to be known by many or few people. Safety.

"I want to be her friend." her eyes are sparkling desperate, and my smile is gone once again. How could I help her? Jules isn't even my friend. We're just partners in Biology, that's all, I'm sure she doesn't want to be my friend. "I've been wanting to for as long as I can remember, Richie. You won't even understand. That's how much I want it. But, I don't know how to... talk to her. You said she's nice, right? Maybe you can talk to her about it. But, like, not straightforward. Just, little steps until she realizes what you're trying to say. Don't tell her immediately, like in one bomb. Make her realize it. Does that make sense?" she's spilling her guts out and I'm seeing it again for the first time in a while. I never knew something like that has been running around and desperate to be out in the world, it's been caged within her skull and blazing heart. Does that make me a shitty friend? I never really asked what's been on her mind─friendship wise, about the people at school─I guess I'm not putting adequate, needed effort to our years of friendship. That really makes me a shitty friend. New lesson of the day: sometimes you should let your friend spill their guts out, don't be fuckin' selfish.

Realizing it now, it must be hard for her. Boys are stuck in every corners of her life, she doesn't have any shape or form of woman contact besides rude bitches at Derry High assuming her as a whore when she's righteously, authentically, almighty not.

I remember when she had her first ever menstruation and she didn't know what to do. She doesn't want to tell her dad about it for obvious reasons. Her mom passed right after she was born, so that doesn't help much. And I was just there, standing, repeating the four words 'how can I help?' in my fucking hyperactive yet useless brain a million times because her beautiful shallow oceans are starting to drain and I'm terrified of it having nothing left in the end, just colorless and no water and no motion. And now, I think I know how I can help. And maybe, that'll help Jules, too. And maybe, she would want to be my friend because of that. And maybe, I could have one want in my life.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Richard Tozier's Point of View**

Three subtle knocks emanated from my dark oak door. The stars in the sky has light prominence, and the moon is paler and more confident than Kurt Cobain's husky, ravishing voice. It was serene and felt a little more slowed in the house, in which my dad is probably sleeping and it's the time for my mom to have our nightly conversation about the shitty life we have and the shitty way my dad treats us and the shitty kind of friend I could be.

My feet is still engulfed with the same shoes I've been wearing since this morning─my whole life, perhaps─and I'm still wearing my pants that I should've changed into pajamas, including that is my shirt that has yet to be changed as well because it reek too much nicotine that it dominates Beverly's Daisies. Mother wouldn't be happy even if I know she'd giggle while she begs for me to stop smoking. That's Maggie Tozier, my mother, she doesn't care about nothing but me going home safe.

Her fine fingers vine around the straps of her backpack just how I had watched from afar. "I'll see you tomorrow, Richie. Go home safe." she had said, just like how my mom wanted.

But rather doing those that are essential, I ambulate towards my door and unleash the lock for my beautiful mom to access my room and for her to finally be safe after another emotionally tiring day in the house.

There she is, beautiful mom that is stronger than these Converse I'm wearing. "Hello, Rich. How's the first day?" she has a smile on her face, levitating gracefully despite the tiny scrapes that haven't been healed for some time now that she's still using makeup to cover up the misplacement that shouldn't be there when a trip to the grocery is needed.

She plants herself on the swivel chair in front of the serviceable and untidy table that I operate in when I do the worthless fucking homework. "You're truly a senior now. You're growing up very fast. Don't leave me, Richie."

Quite absurd to start the conversation if you ask me. "Mom, are you serious right now? I would fucking kill myself if I did." I would, and I know that.

"Richie─"

"Sorry, mom. It's just that, don't ever think that again. Please." most gentle of whispers and softest of diction, whereas that's what she needed. I know everybody should get a taste of that, but also not everybody who doesn't deserve it. Hell, including me because I can be weak too. But, girls most of all. Girls are... girls are treated pretty shitty regardless of their beliefs and sensitivity. I'm old enough to understand and see the utter bullshit of the world. "What happened earlier?"

"Same old, same old." a sluggish shrug shakes her shoulders, showing the vast tiredness and despair that she garners through everyday of life. _Keep it together, mom. I'm here. We're here. Just, hold on a little longer._

But I didn't voice out my thoughts. Not yet. Vexation and wrath is delicately taking over, enough for me to say something before I could even think. And that's against the law. "I could bust that motherfucker with a gun─"

"Richard Tozier, he is your father, have a little decency. When did you begin talking like that? It's too much, Rich." it's been a while since I've heard her this stern, and really correcting me from my lawless actions and expressions and proclamations and everything. But it baffled me greatly that I was concerned why my glasses lost its axis on the bridge of my nose and my mouth is hanging wide open that I could catch flies as I swallow my Roadrunner thoughts.

I don't get it. How? How. How come she's still defending such an invective fucking prick that's dragging her down like the rocks that despondent people would stuff into their clothes before jumping off a bridge. It shut me down, and I'm lagging and everything is blurry and spinning and tilting because I don't get why she would waste some of the strength she had left in her body into giving out an alibi for free for his abusive husband that treats us like absolute shit. Also why? Why. 

And what? For what? To think that maybe things will get better if I or we don't backstab my father. If we stay positive, maybe the stars and the goddamn universe would be nice and align for once and for all. Maybe. But isn't that their job? Isn't that supposed to happen already? To keep things nice and aligned for good and deserving people? At least make things nicer, and warmer, and gentler for my mother, she deserves it much more than I do.

By the time my mouth is closed and my fingers are pushing back my glasses into place, I sigh and voice out my thoughts that I should've just done so none of this has ever happened; the proclamation, the correcting, the lagging and tilting and interrogating. "Mom, why are you still defending him?"

"I don't know also, Rich." a shrug again. She's very tired, it's obvious with the way she's shifting and blinking, and I want her to sleep with dreams flying around everywhere she direct her vision to, butterflies and all that nice and aligned stuff because she needs a break. But I know she's not leaving yet, we just started. "And sorry about what I had said earlier. I'm not leaving you, too. We're here together. We just got to stay strong."

The hefty part of our conversation is closed and we're proceeding to the next, much lighter ones. I backtracked to her previous question, and answered her this time. "First day is great. Pretty... pretty boring, you know, if you ask me. But it's great. It's the first day after all, so it's all introduction and orientation."

"What makes it great?"

A girl named Jules Bowers. She made it great. She made me not feel like I was alone. She's my partner in Biology. She smelled of Lavenders and a bit of Camels cigarette. She's got very blue eyes, I just looked at them properly earlier for the first time, they're apocalyptically beautiful. She brought me back to being real. She made it great. And that's what I'm telling my mom, "There's this girl at Biology. Ms. Romee partnered us up. Her name is Jules. She was really nice."

"Jules?"

"Jules Bowers."

"Yeah," she's nodding her head, maternal curls of midnight streaks that are framing her face bouncing away in choreography. "The daughter of Juliana and Simon. Cousin of Henry, right?"

"Yeah, that girl." it's a small town. Parents know the rumors of their own child at school. Children knows whose parents are cheating with whose. Everybody knows everyone. Everyone knows everything. Everything knows Derry.

"So... that's it?" she wanted more as she wiggle her brows with a challenging smile like what Beverly was doing to me two hours ago. "Do you like her? Little puppy feelings growing in those chambers of your heart, Rich?"

Little puppy feelings? Is it really just little puppy feelings? It might be, maybe? Though it's been nine years, and that's a long time for my seventeen years on earth, that's almost half of my lifetime. It might be a big hound feelings now. I've watch the way she would come out of the Trans AM like a princess from an enchanted carriage. The way she would curl and turn around if a ball is accidentally (no one tries to cross her because she's cousins with the biggest fucking male bully on earth) thrown towards her at Dodgeball, and she'd pick it up and swing it back with sportmanship even though she's already eliminated. The way that she continues to waltz with her friends through the halls with her fingers gripping the straps of her black Adidas backpack while the entire Derry High gossips about her not belonging in the misfit group of sadistic beasts because she really just doesn't. The way she would do things sacrificially gently to make everything in balance and seem less offensive for the world so long as her cousin is breathing down everybody's necks and ruining everything. The way the brand 'Jules and Henry' is rising and making other schoolmates so confused and start to think Henry is truly a teddy bear but they'd get rocked even before thinking that concept. The way she's wearing the same shoes as mine, and I'm acting pretty chill albeit my insides are really excited. The way she's glowing even more gleeful and rosy from late November to late January, and I don't exactly know why. The way she clings to Victor Criss and talks his ear off everytime they would pass my friends and I. The way her warm and friendly and helpful eyes would glance at me after she'd glare at her cousin for rocking our shit. Maybe it isn't what my mom had said all along. Nevertheless, I just decently met her several hours ago. Little puppy feelings, then. "Yeah, I guess. Little puppy feelings."

"How's Beverly and the others?" my mom loves Beverly Marsh, because she's Beverly Marsh. Beverly, the burning fire that's desperate for a friend that is a girl. Beverly, the one who's asking for my help this time, not the other way around.

"Bev's fine." I start, "She's asking for my help. She wants to befriend Jules because I told her I'm partners with her. I'll help her, since girls need girls, and I'm too dumb to even realize that sooner. It's just been us her whole life. And, I think, maybe Jules wants to have that same-sex friend too. Ever since middle school, it's been her and her cousin's gang."

"Girls do need girls. That's very true." she replied, and our conversation went on and on until the wind is colder in temperature of the white balance of our small town's atmosphere, until I informed her that the other Losers are doing fine, until she said she's hitting the hay and I should go to sleep as well, until she said she love me and I said it back, until I'm changed into more comfortable clothes, until I'm staring at the ceiling thinking of anything and everything because Roadrunner doesn't slow down, until I woke up the next morning with the wind is colder in temperature of the white balance of our small town's atmosphere. Our conversation is never stopping, ever. Because we only have each other through this toxicity. We're not leaving each other's side. Beautiful mom who is stronger than the fucking hold of the solar system even through billions of years.


End file.
